


Three... Two... One...

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sameen Shaw was Root's first and last lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supermatique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermatique/gifts).



> Translation to Chinese available by [stumpfe Axt (Caliban)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Caliban/pseuds/stumpfe%20Axt):  
> [Chapter 1](http://stumpfeaxt.lofter.com/post/1de04222_baa6c05)  
> [Chapter 2](http://stumpfeaxt.lofter.com/post/1de04222_bb5f32c)  
> [Chapter 3](http://stumpfeaxt.lofter.com/post/1de04222_bb6d854)

 

Sameen Shaw was Root’s first lover.

 

(She knew her as Samantha, though.)

 

It happened during the time Root posed as Special Counsel’s assistant. The job, if not for the bits of The Machine’s works she caught every once in a while, was basically a glorified secretary and housekeeper combined into one. More than one occasion she had to restrain herself from drugging her employer’s coffee and held him hostage. She was ambivalent about his stance as a loyal, married gentleman who showed no interest in bedding her. It would at least make things easier. Not that she was willing to stoop so low, especially not when she knew he could not give her any useful information regarding The Machine’s whereabouts. He was just another pawn in the game.

 

The hope of something— _anything_ would happen that would give her substantial leads to work on, was the reason she kept playing. The Machine deserved unquestionable loyalty. For finding such prize, she was willing to sacrifice her time and effort, even when it meant she had to spend hours receiving phone calls, arranging appointments, and picking up laundry for a lesser man. However, it did not mean she could not have her fun.

 

Working for Special Counsel provided her with insight of the government’s side of the equation. The Machine, as she had always thought, was nothing short of amazing. It was perfect, rational, and beautiful. She envied the trained operatives working for it, being its arms and legs and carried on its behest. Such a shame they were unwitting of its existence. Among them, part of two-man Catalyst team, stood out Indigo Five Alpha—aka Sam Shaw, who, if Root dared to assume, was The Machine’s darling.

 

With a very notable background—suffering axis II personality disorder, medical student dropped out during residency, in Marines before recruited by ISA then trained personally by Control’s right hand—and her high rate of mission completions, Root could not see how The Machine would not pay special attention to her. Even if the presumption was wrong, Agent Shaw had definitely caught Root’s interest. So much that when Catalyst team succeeded in disarming bombs at Berlin and ordered to meet their handler in New York, Miss May took a two-day leave for sudden family emergency as well.

 

* * *

 

_“Hello?”_

 

_“Cole, it’s Veronica. It’s about the money you asked me to trace.”_

 

_“You found anything?”_

 

_“I can’t talk about it on phone.”_

_“I’m headed to New York now.”_

_“Meet me tomorrow at the Suffolk hotel, room 1458.”_

 

_“I’ll be there.”_

 

* * *

 

Root might or might not stalk Shaw from the airport. The file did not do justice to the person, she thought as she studied Shaw over the newspaper (coincidentally, the one reporting Catalyst’s handiwork the day before). She had to drop her gaze back onto the paper when Shaw caught her eyes from across the room. Quickly slipping into one of her well-crafted masks, she glanced up, appeared to be surprised to find Shaw still staring at her, and offered a smile. It was not an act, she did let out a long exhale of the breath she was unaware of holding once Shaw walked away.

 

Root did not attempt to follow any further, but of course, they ‘accidentally’ stayed in the same hotel.

 

“Are you following me?”

 

There was genuine bewilderment painted on Root’s face as she looked up from her half-filled glass of wine. She did not expect Shaw to walk up to her in the hotel’s bar, at least not as fast. “Excuse me?”

 

“Saw you on the airport earlier,” Shaw stated matter-of-factly after receiving her drink. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

 

“Yet here you are, confronting me instead of walking away.” Root propped her chin on one arm, lazily checking out her companion from the corner of her eyes. “Perhaps it’s fate,” she offered with a snort. She did not believe in fate and obviously, neither did Shaw.

 

“I don’t run from problem,” Shaw countered; brows furrowed and eyes challenging Root’s own.

 

The reaction elicited a smile from Root. Shaw had proven to live up to her (ridiculously high) expectation, and some more. “And why,” she drawled, turning her body sideway to face Shaw fully. “Did you think I pose a threat to you?”

 

Shaw’s answer came in the form of a growl.

 

“To put the case to rest, I’m here for business.”

 

“What kind of business?”

 

It was not an attempt of small talk, Root realized, Shaw was simply wary of her. “I help fixing people’s problem for a living.” In a twisted kind of way, it was the truth.

 

“Didn’t peg you to be one of those motivational talkers.”

 

“Oh, I’m not.” Shaw started losing interest in her, Root could tell and she found herself scrambling to reel her back. “I fix another kind of problem...for the right price. You know a killer when you see one.” She winked at Shaw, hiding the fact that she had not planned to share that particular point.

 

The unexpected confession made Shaw cock a brow. Her posture stiffened back to full alert, but there was a gleam of attraction in her eyes as she ran them shamelessly over Root—trying to locate concealed weapons and calculating muscles power, but still causing the taller woman to get self-conscious from it. She was still in Miss May’s outfit, sensible business skirt and blouse with the jacket draped over her purse on the stool by her side. She was not quite sure if she wanted to confront Shaw while looking like her real self or not, but unfortunately she ran out of time and just went along with her current persona.

 

Under Shaw’s scrutiny, Root felt insecure. The file covered nothing about Shaw’s personal details and for once, Root was lost and bumbling like a teenager with a crush. Shaw was not entirely a computer and not a ‘normal’ person either. She was something in between, something Root had never encountered before, thus she had no certain idea of how to get through. The unknown that was Sam Shaw intrigued her about as good as when she discovered The Machine.

 

“You don’t look like one.”

 

“I prefer to be...less hands-on.” Root covered her wavering confidence with a small grin. “I’m Samantha, you can call me Sam.” The surprised look on Shaw’s face was almost comical, Root took pity on her.

 

“Creepy shit,” Shaw was all but grunted under her breath. These meetings and same name were a little too much to be mere coincidence, yet she was drawn against her own better judgment. “I’m Shaw.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Shaw.”

 

Shaw finished up her drink then tipped her glass at Sam’s direction. “You wanna get out of here?”

 

* * *

 

_“Yes?”_

_“We got a problem. Cole is digging on information.”_

_“What kind of information?”_

_“The Aquino case. He is going to meet his CIA contact tomorrow, her name is Veronica Sinclair.”_

_“Prepare an interception.”_

 

* * *

 

The sex was surprisingly satisfying for both parties. Once the thirst had been fulfilled, they continued on a more leisure pace, albeit subtly outdoing each other by bringing unusual suggestions onto the table. Hence the current situation with Shaw—who was obviously impatient and distracted by Sam’s nakedness, but would rather die before admitting it out loud—was towering over her on the bed. Root was still twitching ever so slightly from the zap she received.

 

“This is fun,” Shaw commented, beaming. Sam’s stun gun sparked under the pressure of her thumb.

 

A shiver, which had a lot to do with the thigh pressing on the junction of her legs, travelled down Root’s spine. “Indeed,” she sighed dreamily. “Ready for another game?”

 

Shaw was eager to roll over and let Sam amble to where her purse had ended up at. Their earlier endeavor had wreaked havoc in the room. Shaw did not care much about the condition, but Sam was taking too long, so she swiftly swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. On the other side of the room, Root was holding a phone to her ear and appeared to be mulling over a problem. She kept frowning even after she had put the phone back into her purse.

 

“Something’s wrong?”

 

The question snapped Root out of her thought. It was quite rude of her to check on her phone while having a company, especially one as lovely as Shaw. However, the message she listened to was of Miss May’s boss, whose office she bugged and conversations she recorded (just for the occasion). The tape revealed latest development of the situation, one she particularly interested in, as it could play a significant piece on her plan to find The Machine.

 

Root smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. A job offer came and I can’t turn it down.” She did not have to explain further because Shaw surely had picked up the hidden meaning between the lines. It did not stop her from looking disappointed, though (if the tiny, barely noticeable frown could be defined as such), and it melted Root’s heart. “Let me make it up to you,” she proposed, walking back to the bed with extra sway on her hips.

 

“One last round?”

 

“How about...” Root drawled. Her hand ghosted over the set of weaponries she had stripped off from Shaw, which despite the alacrity of their actions, managed to be lined up tidily on top of the nightstand. “A parting gift?” She unsheathed the KA-BAR knife then studied its dark sharp edge before turning her gaze back at Shaw, who was interested yet cautious. “Do you trust me?”

 

“No.”

 

Root pouted at the bluntness. “You broke my heart,” she said, a little too dramatic.

 

Shaw rolled her eyes at the display. “I have trust issue. Especially involving a killer-for-hire and my knife.”

 

“Trust me.” Even with the tension she felt on the smooth shoulder under her palm, Root carried on trailing the sharp blade along the side of Shaw’s jaw down to her neck. Her movement steady under the hard stare. “I can’t bear the thought of anyone hurting you,” she pressed harder once the tip reached Shaw’s collarbone, breaking skin and bubbling blood onto the surface. “I mean, besides me.”

 

Involuntarily, Shaw drew a deep breath as the light pain surged from the new wound. Her mind fought between the instincts to shy away or enjoy the pain and whether to tell Sam to stop or beg for more. In the end, she submitted into her own desire, tangling her free hand in Sam’s mane and drew her in for a kiss. Shaw was so engrossed with the sensation that she failed to notice the pattern Sam was drawing on her skin, until the kiss broke and she hummed happily, running a thumb to wipe off the blood from her artwork.

 

“We’ll do this again soon.”

 

Shaw flinched. Men had so many emotions, but women were so clingy she wanted to get them restraining orders. Some women did worth the explosion of emotions—Sam was definitely one of the very few—but Shaw must put down her foot in the matter before she got any ideas. No muss, no fuss.

 

“I don’t do _this_ for more than three times,” Shaw declared, unfazed. It was already more than her standard one night stand limit, Sam was lucky she liked her. “Relationships are for amateurs.”

 

“Who said anything about relationship, Shaw?” For a fleeting second, Root’s expression was unreadable, but then a grin wiped any sign of it. “I can’t wait for our next meeting.”

 

Then in a blur of rushed activities, Root was dressed and had darted out of the room, leaving a dazed Shaw whom thoughtlessly rubbed the marks on her biceps. Unlike the long slash on her shoulder, it consisted of a series of long and short lines that at first glance could pass as raindrops. Shaw knew better, though. Two rows, each had three long lines and two short lines. The Morse code for 88, “love and kisses”. She snorted and rolled her eyes, but did not stop stroking the wound.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry to bother you...” Cole glanced at the room’s number on the door then at the unfamiliar woman behind it. His smile was tight, he was sure Veronica had said room 1458. “I think I got the wrong room.”

 

“No,” Root reassured him, smiling. She then took out the taser from behind her back and shot Cole. He immediately dropped onto the floor with prolonged spasm. “No, you didn’t. I’ve been waiting for you, Mike. We have so much to discuss.”

 

Once Root was sure the electrocution had rendered her victim unmoving, she first unhooked the electrode darts from his shirt then dragged him inside the room by the arms. She preferred to bind him onto the chair, but his weight had proven to be out of her ability to lift, even for a couple seconds. So she simply propped him up on the nearest wall and zip-tied his wrists together.

 

“W-who are you?” Cole struggled to speak, his body still shaking from the tasing. “What did you do to Veronica?”

 

“You can call me Root.” She patted him on the shoulder. Turning on her heel, she pushed open the door leading to the bathroom, where Veronica was tied and gagged inside. “Veronica and I had a bit of a chat before you got here, but she didn’t know anything beside the fact that the government— _your agency_ spoofed the transfer to Daniel Aquino.” Root shrugged nonchalantly and slammed the door shut.

 

The revelation made Cole grit his teeth. He had suspected something was wrong, but not to the extent of his own employer fooling them to clean up their mess. They had killed an innocent man. It required an internal investigation, a fair trial. Unfortunately, he had a more pressing matter to deal with at the moment.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Information.” Root crouched in front of him. “I’ve read your file—well, your team’s file, and I’m kind of a big fan of your partner. You like her too, don’t you?”

 

Cole stiffened.

 

“What do you think she will do,” Root paused to reach the iron, already on for quite some time. “If I call her from your phone and let her hear the things I’m doing to you? Will she—“

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Hmm?” Root angled the hot iron to Cole’s cheek.

 

“Don’t involve her in this.” He flinched away, but there was nowhere he could escape. He was lucky to be able to talk in his current condition. “She doesn’t know anything!”

 

“But you do.” Root’s grin was impossibly wide. _Finally_. “You bugged Aquino's car. What did you hear?”

 

When no answer came, Root raised the iron again, so close that Cole could feel the heat licking his skin. Torture and the kinds were more of Shaw’s area of expertise; she might even enjoy it. While he was only the tech guy—the support, who mostly trapped in the van during missions and watched her taking down their target(s) through his little camera. He was not wired to handle such situation, but he squared his jaw and prepared himself for the incoming pain. He was going to keep Shaw out of this. He also was not going to share any information about Research with this crazy Root woman.

 

Root saw determination flourish in his blue eyes. She really did not want to hurt Shaw’s partner, but she knew it was not going to be easy to get him talking. Unfortunately, the decision was made for her when her phone rang. She had hacked the hotel’s security system, piggybacking the cameras’ feeds and arranging it to give her early warning whenever a group of people dropped off on the fourteenth floor.

 

“Oh... Wilson’s men had been looking for you and Veronica since this morning,” Root commented after checking her phone. She gathered her things, leaving no evidence of her presence behind. “I’ll leave you to them. Please send my regards to Shaw.” And then she was gone.

 

* * *

 

_“Shaw, Cole’s killed.”_

_“By whom?”_

_“We don’t know yet. Get yourself to Suffolk hotel, room 1458. You need to see this.”_

 

* * *

 

By the time Shaw arrived at the location, it was filled with operatives. Even Hersh and Wilson were present. They made way for her to Cole’s body (The CIA had taken custody of Veronica’s). Anger instantly boiled in her chest then spread through every vein in her body as she saw her partner’s condition. He was tied to the chair, his leather jacket left unzipped, the gray t-shirt underneath sported two obvious bullet holes with blood crowning them, and the most disturbing view was the burn on his face. Shaw did not need to be a licensed crime scene investigator to figure out the iron lay forgotten on the floor as the cause; melted skin on its surface gave it away.

 

“I’m sorry, Shaw,” Wilson said empathically. “Cole was a good agent.”

 

“Do we have any lead?”

 

All along, Hersh remained quiet. He nodded once at Wilson when he wordlessly asked for permission. Both of them knew who did it. The assassination was staged and done under Control’s order. They were supposed to eliminate Shaw as well, but prior interrogation with Cole had revealed her unawareness of his covert investigation. The program would not waste such skill for nothing. Lucky for them, Cole had provided them with a perfect scapegoat.

 

“Preliminary investigation leads us to believe a hacker named Root had crashed the meeting between Cole and Sinclair,” Wilson lied between his teeth smoothly. “No picture, no fingerprint. He is a ghost. Whatever information he sought, he didn’t get it from Cole, but he took his drive.”

 

Shaw balled her hands. Cole kept information about their latest missions in it, the program was in danger. “Hersh,” she called, but the man was engaged in a phone call.

 

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Hersh replied calmly as he handed her the satellite phone. It was still connected. “Lucky you, Control want to talk to you.”

 

Shaw put the phone on her ear readily. She had to report and request Control’s authorization to pursue Root. Because not only he had killed her partner, he also posed direct threat to the program. Shaw swore she would kick this so-called ghost to hell by herself. Her train of thought, however, was shattered when a foreign _female_ voice greeted her from the other end of the phone.

 

_“Agent Shaw.”_

 

“Ma’am?” Shaw hesitated, but only for a split second. The chain of commands layered so thick she stopped caring about the people behind it, as long as they gave out orders for her to follow.

 

 _“Agent Cole’s death is very unfortunate.”_ Control was terse. _"But the program needs you.”_

 

“Yes Ma’am.”

 

_“It has been a thrill watching you work. I assume you always wanted to meet me. From now on, you work directly under me to protect the program. Do you understand?”_

 

“Yes Ma’am.” Shaw gave one last glance to where Cole was. Her resolution hardened into steel. “I understand.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

The past months had been a rollercoaster, to say the least.

 

Root was back being Miss May. The job, dull as it was, provided her with latest updates. She was aware of the blame they put on her name. Killing Agent Cole and Agent Sinclair, they said. Normally, she would not mind. The more the merrier, such news was good for business. It did not sit well with her this time, though, because of Shaw.

 

Many times, Root tried to talk herself out of the thought. Shaw and Sam spent one passionate night, nothing more. She should not antagonize herself just because Shaw thought poorly of her, especially not when she did not even know Sam and Root were the same person. And it was not like they would cross path again—at least when they did, it would not be under the same circumstance as the first time. Yet every time Miss May sat behind her desk, eavesdropping her boss’s private phone calls, Shaw haunted her mind. The torture went for around four long months.

 

Change tended to take place in most unfortunate manner. The virus infecting The Machine worried Root, so much that she gave up on her cover as Miss May and confronted Special Counsel. There was nothing more important than her God. On the bright side, the situation led her into acquiring temporary admin position. A marvelous twenty four hours that still brought tears to her eyes whenever she recalled the memories. For the first time in her life, the world and its corrupted humans inhabiting it were not as dull. The Machine gave her purpose, guiding her through the dark with whispers on her ear. She was ecstatic, then.

 

Disappointment came far too soon, in a series of events that crashed her joy. Her time as admin expired. The Machine was nowhere to be found. Harold betrayed her, which by far, was the biggest blow to her ego. The vehement denial failed to appease her anger, only the bullet Reese planted on her shoulder managed to shatter the red she was seeing.

 

By the time Root came back to herself, it was again because of The Machine.

 

Her stay in Stoneridge Psychiatric Facility had been educational. The place, the people in it, the nurses, Doctor Ronald Carmichael, all were bearable because She was always with her. Their newly-blooming relationship was very much like a dating phase, everything was exciting. She longed to hear Her voice—sharing opinions, arguing about methodology, and educating her about the missing piece of humanity she never bothered to learn.

 

Unfortunately, She had not been quite forthcoming in regard of the relevant side, and therefore, Shaw. The most Root got out of Her was that she was not to come into contact with Shaw ever again. Like a petulant child, Root became jealous of Her for monopolizing the only human she held affection for (beside Harold). They had not worked on this certain matter yet when Hersh, unknown to Root herself, closed in her location.

 

When Root got re-tasked, she was more than happy to leave Stoneridge behind. Too bad for her, her first mission involved working with Harold’s poorly-socialized guard dog, and by that, she did not mean Bear. John did not trust her, neither did she, thus her surprise when she found him _saving_ her from the two Vigilance’s soldiers following her into the sewer.

 

“Never thought I will say this again,” Root began, smiling in wary and wonder. “But thank you, John.”

 

John remained unperturbed. “I’m not here to save you.” With that, he cocked his gun, which, Root realized a second too late, was steadily aiming at her the since the beginning.

 

“Of course you are not.” With both arms raised willingly in surrender, Root shook her head lightly at her own ridiculousness. “Always Harold’s loyal pet, aren’t you?”

 

Hence the start of her confinement in the library.

 

Harold did not know what to do with her; Root saw it since her first day in the Faraday cage. He stared at her on the eye, with locked jaw and pursed lips. His posture never relaxed whenever he paid her a visit. Bear always accompanied him. The prior warning speech he gave before stepping inside (“As before, Miss Groves, Mister Reese is upstairs with an unhealthy amount of firearms. Please don’t try to run” or its alternatives with similar meaning) even though he put the ankle bracelet on her, set its perimeter and electrocution intensity by himself. All of those summed up into one conclusion: he was afraid of her.

 

Root was aware of this fact as well, yet she stayed put. Harold was right about The Machine wanting her to be exactly where she was. It was another therapy, one that was not only intended for her, but also for Harold. They needed to work on their past issues, because She wanted them to work together to be able to face the future. So stay, Root did.

 

The days she spent in the library were, by far, the most unproductive phase in her life. With no access to technology and limited space to wander, it quickly led her into boredom. The faint whispers from the street—car’s alarm went off in a seemingly random series of honking sound or the sidewalk lamp flickering—were the highlight of her day, since it contained message from The Machine.

 

Some days, none came and Root was left to her own device. The loneliness drifted her back to Shaw. That one night engraved deeply in her memory. She had not thought much about her during her time at Stonerigde. Now, she could not help but wonder if Shaw was still actively hunting her while doing the mission given to her by ISA (Shaw had proven to be an effective multitasker, Root would vouch the fact herself). _When_ they met again, it would surely be interesting. She never indicated it to The Machine—she just assumed that She knew—but she did look forward to meeting Shaw again.

 

The opportunity came in the wake of Officer Carter’s regrettable demise. Harold had not trust her enough to ask for help, not that her involvement could possibly alter the outcome, since Carter’s number arrived rather late. The Machine was blindsided. Reese was on the brink of death, barely pulled through and when he was strong enough to stand, he left. Harold was shaken to the core, leashing his misplaced anger by sulking and ignoring Her. Root felt the irony when she became the only sane, future-oriented person who was not blinded by anger in the library.

 

“I’ll be going out for provisions later. Please let me know if there is anything in particular you require.”

 

Root almost snorted in respond of such absurdity. Harold Finch, the Father or Artificial Intelligent and creator of her God, preferred to do an activity as mundane as doing grocery instead of listening to his creation.

 

“Just a book from your cart.” Her request grabbed his attention. “Top shelf, third from the right.”

 

“ _False God, Pseudepigrapha in the Modern Age_. Doing a little light reading, Miss Groves?” He mocked. Root’s perception of The Machine as God, and in female form, never sat well with him.

 

“Hmph.” The smile she had was bordering derisive. “I know it’s been hard for you, Harold,” she said, stacking the books in a neat pile. “What with everything you’ve been through. And now even John’s left.” She did not feign sympathy as his frown deepened. “Still, you really shouldn’t take it out on Her.”

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Again, with childishness, Root thought. “I’m talking...about you ignoring her.” She rearranged the books, different ones this time, then showed them to Harold in hope it would open his eyes. “She has a new number for us.”

 

“How did you get this?” Harold asked, disbelief rapidly changed into contempt. “Are you communicating with the machine?”

 

Root did not grant him with answer to any of his questions. He should learn by himself that his constant undermining of The Machine was eventually going to be his downfall. “I understand why you want to quit, Harold. But now is not the time. She wants us to work together.” He appeared to be thoughtful before hastily walking out of the cage. She called out, “You get to play MD in this small reunion, Harry.”

 

Root had no doubt that Harold would get overwhelmed. It was the first mission he did on his own, after all. He might have tricks up his sleeves, but an assailant, he was not. His flaw—caring about other people more than he did to himself—would put him in direct danger. With John gone, he really should let her help him. While Root was not professionally trained operative like the big lug, at the very least she was not against shooting people and would not flinch over it like Harold always did.

 

Her worry became more than just a pressing gut sensation when four o’clock rolled by and still no sign of Harold. He harbored an array of feelings towards her, mostly negative, and yet he never neglected her. Tardiness was not him, either. Every single day, at four o’clock, Harold usually came down with a tray containing tea and biscuits. Root would invite him to join her—she knew he was lonely, his pet did not favor tea and the civilized talk it entailed—and he would turn the offer down (she was still working on it). But not that particular day.

 

By six, the street’s lamps flickered and every parked car within close proximity began a chorus of loud honking. Root knew that Harold was in big danger, then. She took off her ankle monitor, picked the cage’s lock, raided John’s unhealthy arsenal upstairs, then stole a bike on her way out. The Machine guided her to a hotel. She barged in, two guns at hands and actively firing, right before Control’s sick game of Russian roulette with Arthur Claypool could commence.

 

“I told you, Harold, we were supposed to work together.”

 

With Her guidance, Root managed to incapacitate three operatives. It left only Control and Hersh, whom had vacated to next room. Root took the opportunity to rain them with bullets.

 

“Let’s move,” she told the two men huddling together on the other side whilst firing back a couple of rounds at their persistent opponents. “Make a left at the end of the hallway to the service elevator.” Then followed behind them. Unfortunately, she was shot on the upper arm before she could turn the corner; The Machine had no eyes in the hallway. “Elevator’s code five-two-two-pound,” she told Harold hastily. He wanted to help her, but he was not made for this and he had their number to watch. “Go!”

 

Once they had left, Hersh did not waste any time to come out from his cover. The table had turned, with Root lying on the floor and him pointing a gun at her head. He first kicked her gun away, then searched for her phone. “Nice to see you again,” he commented sarcastically, before smashing the phone with the heel of his shoes then knocked her out with a punch.

 

It did not surprise Root to be held in some sort of holding cell. In fact, she had expected somewhere with less light coming through the windows. Alas, her main focus was on the woman towering over her. She smiled good-naturedly at her, knowing the smugness would provoke her captor.

 

“How are you, Miss May?”

 

“Call me Root.”

 

“Of course. You can call me Control.”

 

The revelation prompted Root to make a swift glance over the area, looking for a certain woman whom popped in her mind every now and then. There was no sign of Shaw, only two security details. She was not pleased by any of those. On the other side, she thought Harold should learn from this woman. All of them were fond of using aliases. It was an unstated code to address one with their chosen name; it was only fair to do so.

 

“I believe our interests are aligned.”

 

Root made further mental note of her immediate surroundings. Her gunshot wound had been treated and patched. The cart present by the side contained different sort of contraptions, but none could be use as a real weapon. Control was seated mere feet away—if Root sprung up, she could close their distance with one step. However, Root was weaponless and she suspected Control had concealed one. Even if she did not, Root was still a little lightheaded, so Control would be able to overpower her easily from sheer body strength. Thus, for the time being, Root sat tight on her chair and endured whatever chat Control want to have with her.

 

“The government can help you escape. Our department can protect you from Harold and his friend in the suit.”

 

Root fought hard not to scoff at it. The government housed the most laughably corrupt people. Control’s department—the ISA—killed their own agent then framed her for it. And last, she did not need any protection, not with The Machine protecting her and especially not from Harold and John.

 

“You have been running missions for them, correct?”

 

The snort slipped past Root’s lips before she could stop it. The groundless accusation showed how absurd the conversation was. “I’m more of an independent contractor.”

 

“Is that why they committed you to an asylum—to keep you contained?”

 

Root could see Control’s patience thinning and she took her own jab at her. “Seems everybody wants to lock me up.”

 

The rest of their ‘conversation’ was less entertaining afterward, with a fun ride of amphetamine and barbiturate rollercoaster involved. Control asked— _demanded_ for information, for the impossible, but she asked all the wrong questions. Eventually, when Root heard her own heartbeats echoed in her head, she succumbed to the requests, even though it required her to fix the wrong assumptions Control had.

 

“I am the interface,” Root stated between gasps, writhing against the chair she was zip-tied to. Darkness crept on the edge of her consciousness; she could not take the torture anymore. She needed Her. “If you want to talk to Her, just give me a phone.”

 

The moment Control brought in the phone, Root felt her strength come back. She was more willing to share about the real nature of her relationship with Her. The look on Control’s face said enough—she thought Root was mentally damaged, even though she said she believed her. Fear struck Root when Control talked about putting a stop to her usefulness as an interface, and then carried on the threat.

 

Undergoing stapedectomy without anesthesia was an experience Root would never want to put a repeat on. The last dose of amphetamine helped dulling out the pain, but only slightly. The Machine’s voice, in the form of Morse code hidden in higher frequency, anchored her throughout the process. She knew about the guards and Control more than she would like to, down to the knife she hid in her pocket, and Root told her just that.

 

“I couldn’t reach it till you got close enough to cut me.” Root saw realization downed on the other woman as she run a hand over her pocket, trying to locate the knife that was no longer there. “You still have a scalpel. I’d call it a fair fight.” Then she sprung, forcing Control down onto the opposite chair with knife on the neck.

 

The guards immediately reacted. With their employer held hostage, they could not use firearm. One lunged forward and Root jabbed him on the shoulder, shoving him out of the cage. The other—the one with bum knee—managed to sidestep his fallen partner. He swung a punch when he was close enough, but Root ducked on last second then kicked his knee. A satisfying cracking noise of bone separated from metal screws under her boot accompanied his groan.

 

“It’s rude to barge,” Root commented then when back to Control, whom was too stunned to even try anything. She smirked at the fear radiating off her as she zip-tied her arms to the chair. “Your guards were no match for Her.”

 

“I’m not gonna tell you anything.”

 

“You’re not talking to me.” Root took the phone and put on the earpiece; different sounds immediately filled her good ear and she chuckled. She felt touched that The Machine was worried about her. “Hi, there. What do you want me to tell this bitch?” She turned around, sneering at Control. “Why have you done this?”

 

“The Machine belongs to me.”

 

“No.” Root’s eyes were unseeing. “I don’t belong to anyone anymore. You, however, are mine. I protect you.” She ignored Control’s slight headshake. She would see the light—the astonishing, all-seeing entity that was The Machine. “The only thing you love lives at 254 Wendell street, Cambridge, Massachusetts. I guard it...same as I guard you.” Control’s mask of arrogance crumbled, the fear intensified. “Do not question my judgment. Do not pursue me.” Root got to her knees, an action that was not comforting since her eyes were wide and unblinking. “Or my agents. Trust in me. I am always watching.”

 

“What do you want?” Control asked, wary.

 

“To save you.”

 

“From what? Save me from what?”

 

Root grinned giddily, ducking her head to wipe the stray tears with the back of her hand. Talking directly for The Machine always affected her in some sort of euphoric sensation. “Isn’t She the best?”

 

Control was left baffled from the sudden change.

 

“Your agents will be here for regulated check within an hour or so,” Root said whilst standing up, pocketing the phone in her jeans. “You will manage.”

 

She stepped out and left Control alone in the cage. The search for her leather jacket turned out to be harder than she had initially thought. The tear on its sleeve was disheartening. She would need a replacement, but it would do for the moment. She had not forgotten to take the unconscious guards’ guns with her, just as precaution. It was proven to be useful when she came face to face with Shaw on the last flight of stairs in the emergency exit.

 

Shaw was several stairs below the landing, but her gun was drawn out and pointing at Root’s head. “Root.”

 

For a second, Root swore Shaw had contemplated about calling her by ‘Sam’. It did not surprise her that she knew her alias by then. “Sameen,” she called back. It was not the time to play coy, but she enjoyed the little flinch Shaw did.

 

Aside from the subconscious physical reaction, Shaw stayed composed. Her keen eyes assessed Root’s condition. Her blown pupils were alarming, so did the dried blood trailing from the back of her right ear. Shaw did not have to guess to know the method her employer had used. During the months she worked directly for her, Control had shown an unhealthy aspiration to be a surgeon. She recognized the gun Root trained at her was an issued weapon for ISA agents and despite the fact, she was more concerned about the quivering hand holding it. Even with close distance, there was no way Root could shoot her straight.

 

_Leave._

 

Root ignored the command. The Machine had no eyes in the emergency exit. She got that She was worried, but this meeting, she had been looking forward to it. “Shaw,” she began and retracted her hand back, but the gun was still in her possession. “I didn’t kill your partner.”

 

Shaw remained unmoving; the muzzle of her gun aiming at Root.

 

_Leave. Now._

 

“I stole his flash drive, but he was alive when I left.”

 

_Immediate threat identified. Leave. Now._

 

The message was playing in loop, each repeat held more urgency, and Root religiously disregarded The Machine. “Trust me, Sameen,” she pleaded, not unlike before.

 

It deepened the dent of hesitation in Shaw. For long second, she held Root’s gaze, seeing nothing but utter honesty in familiar eyes. _Too_ familiar. Without the gun, it was like seeing Sam from that night again. But the scent of blood mixed with sweat came from an activity they both enjoyed, the dilated pupils were due to the mind-blowing orgasm Shaw had given her, and the slight tremble of her hand—one that Shaw recalled the most—happened only on the first time she ran it over Shaw’s bare breast. This woman Shaw ran into was both Sam and Root, the hacker whom had allegedly tortured and killed her partner.

 

“Wilson killed him.” Shaw’s grip of her gun tightened but she lowered it down. “I’ve taken care of him.”

 

“I know you’d figured it out.” Root heaved a sigh of relief, Shaw’s opinion of her held bigger impact than she had thought before. “Thank—“

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Shaw abruptly cut. “I’m letting you go this time.” She motioned towards the exit door in a jerky nod before meeting Root on the eyes again. “But I won’t be as generous next time we meet.”

 

Root could only smile sadly. What they had was a simple one night stand and nothing more, she kept telling herself. Being on the different side of the same coin, working for the same entity, did not make their situation easier to embark in any real romantic relationship.

 

“I understand.” Root stepped down the rest of the stairs. Her hand deliberately brushed Shaw’s, noting its warmth and instant stiffness from the contact. “Thank you, Sameen,” she whispered as the door closed behind her.

 

The Machine recalculated the probability of Root choosing Shaw over Her in the future. The result was disconcerting.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_“Deactivate the program. We’re no longer operational.”_

_“Yes Ma’am.”_

_“Shut it down.”_

 

* * *

 

Despite the government shutting down Northern Lights after Vigilance leaked the black budget report, The Machine continued to expand globally. With surveillance slowly but surely becoming part of everyday life everywhere, Her reach extended throughout the countries She previously had limited access on.

 

As of late, Root found herself tasked more to South East Asia and she was not complaining (except for the mosquitoes). The downside of being the only one taking care of relevant numbers was the lack of time off. She had just prevented another suicide bomb less than an hour ago, and here she was, at Ngurah Rai International Airport, ready to hop on another flight to Philippines.

 

In the past month, she flew around so much that it messed up her inner clock. Sleep eluded her most of the time. So whenever she was not busy tracking terrorist or foiling their mass-destruction plan, she would get some shuteye. Too bad for her—not for the first time it happened, actually—her rest was disturbed by new numbers. Two of them and none came as relevant or irrelevant. They were just numbers.

 

“I think we’re past the guessing game,” Root commented, amused.

 

The Machine stayed quiet in her ear.

 

“Fine... Let’s see who these important people are.”

 

It turned out to be harder than Root had anticipated. The first number was buried under several aliases with no digital footprint. One of the aliases held a health record related to an emergency surgery, then it led to a sealed file in the Marine Corps. She had to break through several restrictions to be able to see the file. Even though it only provided a picture and nothing more, Root knew the person by heart.

 

_Sameen Shaw._

 

Root’s blood ran cold. She tried to see Shaw as a victim she needed to save, applying the innocent until proven guilty presumption Harold loved to go with, but it was hard. Unless Shaw discovered something crucial and began questioning her employer—which Root highly doubt was the case, not to say Shaw was dumb, but she stayed loyal to the program even after she found out that they killed her partner—there was no way she would ever be a victim.

 

The second number would be the determinant value to the equation. As impossible as it might sound, tracing it was much harder than Shaw’s. It belonged to a man who had been dead for several decades. She checked the man’s last address on satellite map. However, no house ever stood there, for the area had been an old cemetery since late fifties. Local newspaper records connected to the cemetery highlighted particular information about a war hero being buried there.

 

It took Root one full hour to find solid evidence. A bunch of offshore bank accounts—some left untouched and the rest was drawn from different ATMs, mostly at New York. At this point, she was sure that whoever this person was, they did not wish to be found. The longer she followed the trails, the tighter the knot in her stomach got. This person reminded her so much of herself (she might or might not have faked Samantha’s death) and there was only one person in this world that she knew of, whom could create a complex system like this. The trepidation she was feeling became nightmare in reality when her hacking led her back to The Machine.

 

No name, no picture, just a single word.

 

 _Admin_.

 

Root wasted no time to call Harold. Whatever assurance she had talked herself into believing about Shaw had crumbled. Shaw was going to kill Harold. All Root could do was hoping that she was quick enough to warn him.

 

* * *

_“The country will always be protected.”_

_“Yes, I’m sure you’re weighing alternative approaches, as your president might say. I can save you the time. My company, Decima Technologies, is finalizing development of a new surveillance system.”_

_“All due respect, we’ve gone down a similar path with mixed results.”_

_“Northern Lights was effective but compromised by the ethics of its creator. It spoke but never listened. What I have not only listens, but obeys. It can find anyone, anywhere, anytime. You merely need to ask.”_

_“Then find me a way to wrap up this Northern Lights problem. Find me its creator.”_

_“We are more alike than I’d imagined, Senator.”_

 

* * *

They killed Harold.

 

The government put out a request. Samaritan did the searching during its beta test. Agent Shaw pulled the trigger.

 

Thirteen hours time difference between Bali and New York could not beat nineteen hours of flight from Denpasar to Kuala Lumpur to Newark. Root was too late. The moment she walked out from the airport, a high-pitched noise rang through her ear. It was as if someone had directly put a speaker in her brain. The sound was so loud and disturbing that it rendered Root down to her knees, both hands clutching the side of her head in fruitless attempt to stop the piercing noise. Tears began prickling her eyes.

 

Some people hurry to her aid, asking if she was alright, but their voices did not pass through the one filling her brain. At first, she thought it was an electronic interference, but the infrasound system installed in her cochlear implant had ensured her link with The Machine would never be severed or disturbed again. The conclusion was even more disturbing, because it meant the sound _did_ source from inside her head.

 

Root felt her heart clenched painfully. The noise was The Machine’s cry of agony.

 

Then as abrupt as it came, it vanished. Root stood on shaky legs, brushing off the people around her as she walked away. She was not in the mood for acting nice. The Machine was in pain and even though Harold had not warmed up fully to her yet, he was still the man she had been waiting for her whole life. The loss hit her harder than when her mother passed away, above all because he died on the hand of the only other human she cared about.

 

“Are you there?” Root whispered. Her arms wrapped around her body, but they did not stop trembling. “Can you hear me?” When She did not respond, Root looked around for the nearest camera and went to stare at it. “Please...”

 

Passersby gave her odd looks. Just a moment ago, she appeared to have a mental breakdown by the airport entrance, gathered herself, and then talked to a camera by the lamp post on the parking lot. She did not blame their negative opinions of her, but she did not mind either. The one thing bothered her was the unblinking red light underneath the camera.

 

The Machine was watching, Root knew it, but She ignored her. She was angry, and rightfully so. Failure from saving Her own creator—Her father was a frustrating fact She had to live (and relive) with. Being blindsided by humans’ nature was not Her fault. Selfishness could not be calculated. Boxing it in the tiny percentage labeled as unforeseen variable was the best She could do. There were a lot of things humans did that could not be rationalized. Root hated that The Machine blamed Herself for it.

 

“Please, talk to me,” Root pleaded. “Tell me, is Bear alright?”

 

The red light blinked once. A yes.

 

Root smiled faintly. “And the big lug?”

 

It took longer, but there was a blink. Root sighed, relieved. She imagined John would never give up on Harold and more likely became a collateral damage before letting Shaw get to him. She was glad he was at least still alive. However, from past experience with Carter’s death, John was proven to be quite petulant when his hero-complex ego got hurt. Losing Harold under his watch would be a bigger blow. Root would have to deal with him, possibly putting Caroline Turing’s skill to help him getting out his angst. Later, after she found out where he had gone.

 

“I presume he is auxiliary admin?”

 

Another blink.

 

“Can you—“

 

Then Shaw’s number came up. Again, again, and again.

 

* * *

 

Reclusive billionaire and also computer genius whom had built intrusive mass surveillance system, Harold’s death grabbed the headline of every news all over the world. The government washed their hands over the matter, Senator Ross Garrison heading the campaign. They weaved a compelling tale to tell and Harold died a traitor, instead of the hero like the science society deemed him to be.

 

Root’s long-term plan was to clear Harold name. Her short-term plan, however, was striding through the sidewalk in Brooklyn. Just several feet ahead of her, Shaw was clueless of her presence. She was so close, yet they were so far apart. Distracted by the thought, Root lost Shaw when she turned at the corner.

 

“Where is she?”

 

“Behind you,” Shaw answered from behind Root. Her coat shielded the gun she was holding from plain view, its muzzle nudged on the small of Root’s back. She leaned forward, ignoring the scent of familiar perfume and the tips of soft hair tickling her nose. “Why are you following me?”

 

“Hello, Sameen.” Root chuckled, tilting her head to one side so she could catch the scowl on Shaw’s face. She still made the butterflies in her stomach fluttering wildly. “Did you miss me?”

 

“The hell if I did. What do you want, Root?”

 

“I just want to talk.”

 

Root’s nonchalant attitude grated on Shaw’s nerve. She did not like being tailed, especially not by someone like Root. The latest mission she accomplished had further shook the core of her belief. It was like Aquino all over again. She did not want to doubt the program, because Research was _never_ wrong. However, the small voice of conscience from the far back of her mind kept telling her that what she had done was a grave mistake. Root’s sudden presence seemed to validate it somehow.

 

“I have nothing to say.”

 

“I believe you do.” Root turned around daringly, pressing forward so Shaw’s gun silencer dug into her belly. “It’s about the man you killed last night.”

 

Shaw lowered her gun then dragged Root by the elbow to the nearest alleyway. It was a blind spot, no surveillance in sight. The Machine had to use Root’s phone to monitor the situation, alas it supplied Her with no more than noise feeds. She was worried as the recalculation took place. Her assets were threat to each other and only one of them would walk away alive this time. The percentage of that lone survivor being Her analog interface was decreasing with each second passed.

 

“I don’t need you to criticize my work,” Shaw flung Root’s arm, took a step back, then aimed her gun at her again. “Stay out of my business and I’d stay out of yours.”

 

Root paid no heed to the warning. “You feel it, don’t you?” She looked up to the sky, absorbing the hustle bustle of the city and its people moving about with the one good ear she had left. “A shift. Something changed the moment you put a bullet in Harold’s brain.”

 

Shaw frowned. She did notice the change, but reasoned it as her dislike for being observed combined with the fact that she had just killed the man whom made it possible. The government paid her to eliminate threats; they hired her because she got the job done without question or remorse.

 

“You killed an innocent, honorable man.”

 

“He was _not_ innocent.” Shaw cocked her gun higher, directing it at the spot between Root’s eyes. She was done talking. It was getting nowhere; she wondered why she even bothered to in the first place. “He was a target.”

 

“What are you going to do? Shoot me then abandon my body in this filthy alley or parade it around for everyone to see?”

 

“I don’t kill unarmed people.”

 

Root’s smile widened. “Who said I’m unarmed?” Then reached for her gun.

 

Shaw reacted to the movement by firing off a bullet. It missed. Or more like, Root side-stepped its trajectory on last second. Shaw adjusted to the change quickly, shooting several more rounds and forced Root to take cover behind the dumpster. Root’s returning fire was far from few (The Machine always had to warn her due to her tendency to open fire as if she had endless supply of ammunition). They were less precise without The Machine’s guidance, but every bullet gave her time to march forward and pushed Shaw to duck and retreat.

 

Both of them realized that the other would not back down from the fight; it would not end until blood was spilled. They continued the exchange until they reached the dead end of the alley. Lucky for Shaw, she carried more ammo than she supposed to be, not to mention her back-up piece. But then again, of course Root, whom had once stripped the array weaponries she managed to fit on her person, had anticipated it. Root knew she would never be able to take down a trained operative like Shaw in a gunfight, or a fistfight, or in any fight except for verbal. So she simply was not going to do a fair fight.

 

The Machine beeped, three times.

 

“Thank you for reminding me.” Root took her other gun from the inner pocket of her jacket. She had three bullets left; it was time to play dirty. “Can you see me now?” She stared beyond the crates Shaw was hiding behind, smiling at the hidden camera installed by the backdoor of the building. The Machine beeped again. “Ready when you are.”

 

Shaw, unaware of the extra eye watching her, prepared herself to fire from the side. They could not keep playing like cat and mouse all day. Sooner or later, someone would notice, and she would not be the one found to be dead. Descending tone cue then Root shot. Shaw did not make a sound, but it hit her gun, stripping it off from her hand in a scary precision. She was baffled by the sudden turn of event.

 

The Machine beeped, twice.

 

Root moved forward. She was merely feet away from Shaw. “Let’s aim for the shoulder, shall we?”

 

Another long descending tone cue followed by a single fire and Shaw was clutching on her shoulder. She leaned back on the crate to inspect the wound and that was when she saw of the camera. With her uninjured hand, she successfully shot and broke it.

 

The Machine beeped.

 

“It’s okay,” Root assured Her. One last round, but it was enough. “I got this.”

 

In a burst of movement, Root charged forward. Shaw reacted accordingly, rising to her full height then shooting at the incoming assault. One bullet lodged itself on Root’s arm, but it did not stop her. Shaw suspected something was up, but it was too late when it happened. Root had thrown her gun at her.

 

The action caught Shaw off guard. Instinctively, she raised an arm to deflect the incoming projectile. When her sight was no longer blocked, she came face to face with Root, whom had a stun gun in hand. The electrodes dug into her neck then electrocution shook her body until it rendered useless and she fell to the ground.

 

Root tossed the stun gun aside in favor of her gun. “I’m— _we_ are disappointed, Shaw. We thought you’re better than this.” She looked down at Shaw, running her eyes over her twitching body with nothing but disappointment and disgust. “She protected you and you killed Her maker. She is angry, Sameen, really angry. It frightens me. She keeps giving me your number. She won’t say what I should do with you; she likes it better when I figure it out myself. This time, though, I don’t think she would mind.”

 

By then, Root had crouched down and pressed the barrel of her gun on Shaw’s temple. Shaw remained expressionless whilst staring up at Root. It felt like jumping off a plane without parachute, she saw the ground and her end coming, yet she could not do anything to alter the outcome.

 

“I really really like you.” Root’s smile faltered, she looked melancholic. Everyone she loved was taken away from her by force, but not this time. This time she would be the one who chose to leave. “But She loved him, and I love Her. Goodbye, Shaw.” And then she pulled the trigger, the muted noise did not echo in the empty alleyway.

 

Sameen Shaw was Root’s last lover.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is ‘three rounds left in a gunfight’. My first thought after seeing it is ‘Root should kill Shaw under The Machine’s order’. Then so this fic happened...


End file.
